


Monster

by TommysIdiosyncrasy



Series: It's A Long Walk Home, Kid [6]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Anxiety, Dissociation, Emotional Manipulation, Gen, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kidnapping, Peter Parker Has Panic Attacks, Protective Tony Stark, Urination, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:28:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23315401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TommysIdiosyncrasy/pseuds/TommysIdiosyncrasy
Summary: Peter didn't do anything, not really. Mr. Thompson was just unhinged.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Series: It's A Long Walk Home, Kid [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1297046
Comments: 12
Kudos: 189





	Monster

**Author's Note:**

> trigger warning: there's some references to rape, child abduction and maybe PTSD so if that bothers you might not want to read this

It was just a normal day. 

Peter kept telling himself that over and over, but he was still locked in someone’s ice chest, which is decidedly  _ not _ normal. 

It’d started after school. Well, it technically started well before that, but it still happened when Peter was leaving school.

He had stepped down the school steps, waving goodbye to Ned, and had started on his way to the subway station. Then a hand landed heavily on his shoulder.

“You’re Peter, right?” Peter stopped and turned to see an older man standing a good foot over him. “I’m Harry Thompson.” 

“Flash’s dad?” Peter asked, the only person he could think with that last name. Mr. Thompson nodded and subtly began to steer Peter further along the street. “Er-what can I do for you, sir?” His spidey sense prickled in warning along the back of his neck, making his palms sweat.

“You see, son, Flash is a smart kid. Smartest in the class, actually.” Peter frowned lightly, that didn’t sound right. Flash was smart, he was going to their school after all, but Peter didn’t think he was the top of the class.  _ Peter _ was top of the class. “And recently you’ve been really treading on his toes, therefore you’re treading on  _ my _ toes.” 

Peter swallowed and tried to move a step away but the hand on his shoulder tightened in response. He felt like he really was in trouble. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t under-” Peter began. 

“Shut up.” He jumped at the harsh tone and his heart started to beat rapidly in his chest. “Let’s just have a little chat.” 

Peter  _ really _ didn’t like the sound of that, trying once again to dislodge Mr. Thompson’s grip on him. “I’m really sorry but I honestly can’t. My Aunt’s expecting me-” 

“I’ve already talked to your Aunt.” He cut him off again, face darkening. “This’ll only take a moment.” He suddenly stopped, turning Peter towards a car parked off the side of the road. “Hop in.” He ordered.

“But-”

“ _ Be quiet. _ ” Mr. Thompson reached out and yanked the car door open, shoving Peter inside. He stumbled inside and felt his backpack being pulled off and tossed into the back seat. Mr. Thompson leaned over and grabbed the seatbelt, buckling it over Peter with a condescending smile. 

Peter flinched when he slammed the door closed and he considered running for a moment, but the man was already climbing into the driver’s seat and the opportunity passed. Throat dry and hands trembling, Peter tried to calm his panic by telling himself that he was Spiderman. He could handle any threat. 

It was so silent Peter barely dared to breathe, his senses shooting adrenaline down his spine. He clenched his hands tightly into fists, fighting down the fight or flight response. If he fought, he could seriously hurt Mr. Thompson and compromise his identity. If he tried to flee, he’d fall into oncoming traffic right outside the window. If he survived that, who’s to say Mr. Thompson wouldn’t just come after him again.

“Where’s your phone?” He suddenly asked. Peter pulled it from his pocket with shaking fingers. The man reached over and tugged it from his grip and slipped it into his pocket. 

Fear slammed into Peter so hard, for a moment it was like he’d passed out. This was no overprotective, entitled parent that’d yell at and threaten him before stomping away when he didn’t get his way.

Mr. Thompson was kidnapping him. 

When the car stopped, Peter sucked in any tears that wanted to escape.  _ You’re Spiderman, keep it together _ . 

The car door was locked and his seatbelt was still on so he didn’t even consider running again before the door was opening and he was being unbuckled. He stood on shaking knees and let himself be led into a large house he’d only been to once. 

Peter was pulled through the immaculate living room and to a flight of stairs leading down to what he’d assume was the basement. But it wasn’t actually the basement, instead it was a big professional looking kitchen with gleaming surfaces. Peter didn’t have much time to marvel at his surroundings before he was being pulled along. 

Mr. Thompson didn’t say anything, just kept a firm hand on the back of his neck akin to what Mr. Stark sometimes did. Only this wasn’t comforting or familiar, it was hard and cold and Peter wanted nothing more than for him to let go. 

“Y’know, Pete. I thought you were a pretty good kid. Sure you were a little full of yourself and you spread that Tony Stark internship bullshit everywhere, but I just assumed you were troubled and didn’t have your dad around enough growing up.” Peter winced at the reminder. “But recently I’ve been hearing a lot about you from Eugene and most of it I don’t like.”

“Sir, why am I-?” Peter tried, voice small and hoarse.

“I told you to shut up.” He punctuated his sentence with a harsh shake. Peter snapped his jaw shut with a click. “I know your aunt babies you, that she indulges in your lies, and you’ve never been punished in your life. She’s raising a spoiled brat!” Peter felt a rush of both shame and indignant anger. His aunt was amazing! She never did anything half heartedly, in work or raising Peter. He liked to think he wasn’t spoiled when they lived from check to check.

Mr. Thompson's grip tightened painfully on his skin and Peter winced, reaching up to grab at his wrist. He shook him off, not letting up for a second. 

“Doesn’t matter now,” He grumbled, walking them into a supply room of sorts. “That’s why you’re here.” 

Peter didn’t dare speak.

The man finally let go and shoved Peter towards a shelf of cleaning supplies. The room was about half the size of his room with a side closet and basket full of aprons next to a small washing machine. Before he could move any further, Mr. Thompson grabbed his wrists and spun him around.

Using quick movements, he brought Peter’s wrist together and started fastening something tight to bound them behind his back. Peter barely realized what was happening before he was dragged backwards towards something in the corner.

Peter felt so powerless in that moment. He couldn’t twist away and break through the zip ties around his hands without revealing his biggest secret to a crazy man. He wanted to scream in frustration, he could struggle and strain but it would be useless. He weakly hoped that he’d chalk up Peter’s silence and lack of struggle to fear. 

Angry tears burned in his eyes but he refused to let them fall, not even when Mr. Thompson opened an ice chest and demanded he step in. 

He was confused only for a moment before he bent down to pull Peter’s legs out from under him. With a shout, he landed harshly on his back and smacked his head on the edge. Without a second glance his way, Mr. Thompson zip tied Peter’s ankles together and pushed him completely in the container. 

It was chilly against his back, the cold easily breaching through the thin hoodie he had on. He felt his fear rapidly returning as he stared up at the cold eyes of his captor. 

“Who’ll come running to your rescue? Tony Stark? No, none of your bullshit lies can save you now. You’re going to learn a lesson that you can’t cheat in life, not as long as people like me exist.” Peter quivered in fear, this man was nuts! 

Without another word he slammed the lid shut and Peter was plunged into the dark. He strained his ears to listen for the man’s retreating steps, body losing tension marginally the farther he was from Mr. Thompson. 

It was cold and cramped, Peter’s arms trapped under him and his legs were awkwardly bent against his stomach. There wasn’t enough room for him to lie down fully but there was enough room for him to shift around onto his stomach to alleviate the pressure on his cramping limbs. 

There was a foolish part of Peter that imagined he’d be in there for an hour or two, then Mr. Thompson would return to rough him up once more before letting him go with a harsh threat if he told anyone. He was a well respected man, how would he be able to keep a teenage boy trapped in his basement a secret? 

Longer than Peter would expect, because as the time trickled on and his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he thought it must have been in there for hours. Surely it was night already? Peter thought so, because his eyes were so heavy and his neck drooped every few seconds before he snapped out of it when his head smacked onto the ground. 

Eventually he was able to fall asleep despite how unbearably cramped and suffocating the ice chest was, he was too exhausted from the adrenaline drop and panic to be afraid of the tight space. Peter rested his face against the chilly floor and his eyes finally drifted close in the silence of the basement.    
  


Ice water pouring over him caused his body to jolt and shudder in surprise, jerking him awake with a frightened shout. 

Spluttering and coughing, Peter squinted through the bangs plastered to his forehead to see Mr. Thompson’s broad shoulders blocking out the bright overhead lights. He reached down and Peter instinctually shied away from the touch, his Spidey-sense sending a warning shiver along the back of his neck. 

“Stop moving.” He was ordered. Large hands grabbed his shoulders and lifted him off his side so he was now standing, soaking wet. Peter’s teeth chattered as his body temperature rapidly lowered, his head feeling rather heavy and sluggish. 

When Mr. Thompson stepped back from the chest Peter followed him with his eyes wearily, he was messing around with a socket across the room and grunted as he stood back up, a razor in hand. 

“They always say the first night is the hardest. Teenagers always bitch and moan the first night they’re incarcerated.” Peter didn’t know how to respond, so he didn’t. Instead he stared at the electric razor he held in one hand as he reached out with his other towards Peter’s face. 

“What are you-?” Peter broke off when he received a sharp slap across the face, feeling dizzy with shock and pain. 

“Hold still.” Before he could ask anymore stupid questions, Mr. Thompson grabbed a fist full of his hair and yanked him forwards. He didn’t comprehend what was happening until he’d already started dragging the buzzing blade over Peter’s hair. 

He cried out in dismay as he watched strands drift down his shoulders and land lightly in the water pooling at his feet. A rough shake that sent painful prickles along his scalp silenced anymore protests. 

Tears flooded his eyes but he just sniffled once and blinked them away, refusing to cry over it. It was hair, it would grow back. He had other things to worry about than his appearance. 

Yet it hurt when Mr. Thompson released his head to instead grip his chin tightly to push the razor over the clump of hair he’d been holding.

“There, nice and even.” He ran a condescending hand over Peter’s freshly shaved head, a mocking smirk on his face. Peter bit his tongue until it bled and refused to meet the other’s gaze. Instead he stared down at the locks of hair floating through the water around his ankles. 

Mr. Thompson switched the blade off and tugged it from the wall to set it on the shelf beside Peter’s stunned form. Then he lifted Peter out of the ice chest and dropped him like a sack of potatoes. He hissed as he was unable to stop his descent, his temple connecting with the tiled floor and sending stars bursting beneath his eyelids. 

He barely registered the man tipping the chest onto its side to dump the dirty water onto the floor to seep down a drain in the center of the floor, instead he tried to keep his foggy mind from drifting into an unwilling rest. He was shaking and everything ached. 

“Wait here.” Mr. Thompson said, as if Peter could actually go anywhere. He focused on his breathing and not the panic beating at his ribcage. Nothing was making sense, people this crazy didn’t exist. Other kids got kidnapped, not Peter. It was always  _ someone else  _ you heard about, some unfortunate soul getting snatched off the streets. Peter guessed he wasn’t the perfect definition of an average kid, but all the danger in his life came from being Spider-man.

But right now he was just Peter Parker, alone and scared in his classmate’s basements where no one knew he was.

He was taken from his thoughts when large hands gripped him under his armpits and pulled him upright with ease. 

Peter went boneless and let himself be dragged back over to the ice chest. He didn’t want to go back in, the thought sent his heart rate spiking, but a deep sense of helplessness settled on his shoulders. But as he was being lifted back into his cage, he glimpsed the razor sitting on the shelf and an idea popped in his head.

As he was being lowered down, he clamped his teeth down onto Mr. Thompson’s forearm. He shouted and grabbed him around the throat, Peter gave a swift kick with his bound feet and landed a solid blow to the wooden shelf under the pretense of struggling against the hand choking his windpipe. The jostling knocked the razor down and it bounced off the edge of the chest to land under Peter. Mr. Thompson let out an angry sound and managed to pry him off, dropping Peter’s body right on top of the offending object. 

“You son of a bitch!” He snarled, backhanding Peter. The ring on his third finger cut along Peter’s jaw and sent pain sizzling along his face. Warmth blossomed along his cheek and metallic blood coated his tongue. “I thought you’d caught up by now, but it seems you’re still clueless as to what position you’re in.”

He stared down for a minute before shoving Peter’s legs against his chest and slammed the chest shut, causing Peter to jump. 

At first all he could hear was his trembling heart and frightened gasps of air, but he was able to follow his captor’s footsteps up the stairs and across the floor a few flights above his head. He couldn't make out what he was doing, but the slamming and stomping made it obvious he wasn’t happy. 

He was gone long enough for Peter to wiggle the razor into his hands, arching his back to try and angle the blades towards the zip ties around his wrists. His heart stuttered when he heard Mr. Thompson returning and dropped the razor, hands trembling. 

The chest was wrenched open and Peter realized he hadn’t even locked it, despair settling heavily in his gut. That might have been his only chance to escape and he’d blown it. 

The stoney look along Mr. Thompson’s large face caused Peter’s stomach to clench with anxiety, eyes darting down to the objects he was holding.

He jerked away from his reaching but a snarl and painful grab of his jaw made Peter comply with his manhandling. 

A cloth was crammed into his mouth enough force to make Peter retch at both the sensation grating on his tongue and it touching the back of his throat briefly. 

Before he could recover, Mr. Thompson ripped off a long strip of duct tape to stick down the rag and effectively gagging him.

“That’ll keep your mouth shut.” He scowled, looking reading to close the lid once more before he saw something. Disbelief turned into anger as he grabbed the black cord of the electric razor that’d peaked out from behind Peter’s scrunched figure. He winced as the razor was yanked out and the man put two and two together.

He couldn’t do anything to prevent Mr. Thompson from grabbing him by the collar and shaking him with vigor.

“You bitch!” Spittle landed on Peter’s face and he tried to lean away from the screaming, but Mr. Thompson just shook him once more and dropped him. His chest heaved with anger as he stared at the kid’s curled body. “Goddammit.” He growled and closed the lid, the jingling of the lock signaling to Peter that he was once more trapped. 

The quaking of his limbs lasted far longer this time. Hours ticked by and Peter knew that the man wasn’t coming back anytime soon. His stomach gnawed on itself and to his horror he realized he had to pee. There was nothing he could do, just shift around to try and alleviate the pressure on his bladder from his cramped position.

Despite how unpleasant it was, he tried to focus more on the deep hunger he felt to distract himself. It didn’t really help, but Peter decided it was better than nothing.

More time passed by and Peter found himself growing bored. As ridiculous as it seemed, the terror and panic that’d been eating away at him was finally ebbing away as nothing else traumatic happened and Peter would rather be doing that english essay that was due at the end of the week than just being stuck there. There was nothing to do except focus on either his hopeless situation or the ever more urgent calls to pee. 

Neither seemed like much of a good idea, so Peter suddenly turned his thoughts to his friends. Were they worrying about where he was? It’d only been part of one school day so they could just think he was sick, but when Ned’s texts went unanswered he’d know something was up. If Peter missed school, he  _ always _ asked for whatever work he missed from Ned. 

He suspected that Aunt May might not know exactly where he was, but part of him worried that somehow Mr. Thompson had reassured her that Peter was fine without both arising suspicion to himself or revealing his hand in the situation. 

It was impossible to know exactly how long Peter was down there, but he did notice when music started to drift down from floors above and the sound of dozens of feet moving brought him out of a haze.

His ears were sensitive enough to make out that they were roughly two or three floors above and there were lots of people. He couldn’t pick up any distinct words or voices but he could tell the music was mostly string instruments. 

Was Mr. Thompson throwing a party? 

It wasn’t like when Flash had hosted a hundred or so kids with cheap booze, a DJ booth and pounding music. The people attending didn’t sound like they were dancing and the music sounded more classical than a teenage party. 

The image of the man drinking and laughing with his friends to show of his wealth and perfect life made his stomach twist. It was fair! Peter was down here! So many people were in Mr. Thompson’s home and not a single one of them knew he was there.

Tears clouded his vision and he sniffled pathetically through the gag, unable to stop them or wipe them away as they trickled down his cheeks and snot dribbled from his nose. 

Peter wasn’t sure when he fell asleep because the next thing he knew, his bladder was emptying itself and he was both too confused and weak to stop the disgusting warmth from leaking.

He groaned and squeezed his eyes shut in both mortification and relief. Peter grimaced at the disgusting feeling of his jeans sticking to his skin and the smell that quickly filled the small space.

Peter noticed that music was still playing but it was far more muted and there was no movement from upstairs, the party seemed to have stopped but Peter didn’t think Mr. Thompson would be coming to check on him until morning.

Sighing through the cloth, Peter closed his eyes and tried to ignore the feeling of urine rapidly cooling against his genitals. He had zero appetite at that point but his metabolism still demanded his attention. 

He got very little sleep, shifting and restless until morning when he jerked awake at the sound of footsteps approaching. Sweat beaded along his temple and the lock clanked as the chest was opened. 

Peter saw the exact moment Mr. Thompson realized what’d happened and once again uncontrollable tears filled his eyes. 

“Oh my god, that’s disgusting!” He clamped a hand over his hand and mouth, face twisted in distaste. Peter coward away, shame and fear mixing into a hot pitiful mess in his chest. “Jesus, you pissed yourself like a two year old.” Unable to defend himself, Peter bit down hard on the damp fabric in his mouth. “God, now I gotta clean up this shit.” 

Peter was suddenly glad that Mr. Thompson wasn’t literally cleaning up his shit. He wasn’t sure he’d ever recover from that.

He was hauled up and lifted up, Mr. Thompson being careful to not touch Peter’s ruined jeans to his body. Another wave of shame almost threatened to spill over his cheeks, but he swallowed them down as he was carried over to the corner across from the washing machine.

He blinked at the small basin with a faucet that he was being set down in. it was hard to balance with his leg tied together, they had lost feeling long before nightfall and Peter stubbled as they threatened to give out. Thankfully, Mr. Thompson bent to undo the binding around his ankles. 

“You try anything,” He said, staring Peter in the eyes. “I’ll beat you within an inch of your life. You got it?” Peter nodded quickly and Mr. Thompson stepped back to let him regain his balance on his newly freed limbs. 

He glanced down at the inch high walls around the drain and the small faucet. He assumed it was for cleaning mops or dumping mop water into. He had seen one before in the custodian's closet in the gym.

Mr. Thompson reached out and tugged on the button on Peter’s jeans and his blood turned to slush in his veins. Grunting against his gag, he jerked his hips away from the unwanted touch. The man scowled and shot Peter a warning look but he just shook his head rapidly. 

“Shut up,” he grumbled, placing his hands on Peter’s waist. “I’m not stupid enough to completely untie you, not when you could run off the minute I turn my back.” Peter couldn’t beg or plead that he wouldn’t, just  _ please don’t touch there- _

But it didn’t matter because he heard the zipper coming undone and there was cold air that burned against the rash forming on his thighs. 

Another wave of burning chagrin turned his stomach into a queasy mess as he was stripped naked from the waist-down.

For a moment Peter wasn’t there, instead he was tied up on his own bed. Big hands covered his mouth to keep his crying silent. Aunt May was at work and the apartment was quiet except for the hot breath at his neck and the bed frame’s creaking.

Cold water pouring over his legs caused him to give out a muffled yelp and to jerk away from the sensation. Mr. Thompson had turned the water on in the basin, leaving it cold as he dragged a rough hand towel over his bare skin. It rubbed painfully against the red patched forming by his privates, but he was glad that the sticky and chafing feeling was being washed away. 

A mist settled over Peter, he didn’t struggle or move much as he was being cleaned. When Mr. Thompson touched  _ there _ it was like Peter was watching from across the room. 

He opened his legs wider when instructed, turning when Mr. Thompson prodded. He stayed still as he was toweled dry and stepped out from the basin. Mr. Thompson’s voice floated in one ear and out the other and suddenly jeans were right in front of his feet. He stepped into them as the other pulled them up to button them closed.

Peter blinked up at Mr. Thompson’s face and twitched once at the touch on his shins where he was being tied again. 

The dark was both a blessing and a curse. Peter was alone, so he couldn’t be hurt by Mr. Thompson. The dark also meant uncertainty and an aching anxiety that every creak and rustle was his captive returning to inflict more pain. Peter never really liked to be alone, but he guessed it was better than reliving what had just happened.

Wandering hands itched all along his skin and he dug his nails into his hands, fighting off the phantom touch. It didn’t work perfectly, but the pain made the feeling subside enough for Peter to breathe easier. 

An entire day went by. 

Peter was sure of it because the buzzing beneath his skin had subsided into a worrisome numbness. And when Mr. Thompson appeared again, sending Peter’s heart into an anxious tumble, the light was exactly the same as the last time. Seemingly morning sun pouring through the small window above the washer. 

He lifted Peter by the forearm until he was sitting up, legs prickling around his feet and knees. Pins and needles appeared in almost all his limbs and he bit his lip against the unpleasant sensation. 

Peter saw something coming from the corner of his eye and flinched away, but Mr. Thompson kept reaching. He yanked on the duct tape around his mouth and it ripped off with clumps of Peter’s hair. He groaned, jerking at the pain that sent reflex tears flooding his eyes. It hurt, but when the rag was removed it felt so much better to flex his jaw to ease the throbbing.

He glanced in confusion towards the man but he just took a bowl sitting in his lap and scooped up a spoonful of its content to hold out for Peter. It looked vaguely like oatmeal, he wasn’t quite sure, but everything in him was demanding to eat it no matter what it was. His stomach had quit rumbling a few hours in the night but now sent almost a nauseous amount of hunger up his throat.

“If you don’t eat-” He began to threaten but stopped when Peter practically lunged forwards to comply. It continued smoothly as Peter obediently took everything that was offered, even when he briefly considered that Mr. Thompson might be poisoning him.

It didn’t seem like enough, but when it was gone that gag was replaced with more tape. Peter glanced over at the man when he continued to sit there for a minute.

“Now that you’re gone, Flash is getting the recognition he deserves. He of course has no clue where you went, but he’s not complaining. No one is, your name’s not even in the news anymore.” Peter swallowed, staring down at his lap. It had only been three days? Four? It didn’t matter, he knew Aunt May wouldn’t just give up when she realized he was missing. It still hurt, to think about how the world kept on turning without him. Was Ned losing sleep over where he was? Did Aunt May think he was dead? 

He wasn’t sure what Mr. Thompson wanted to achieve by telling him this. Tears? Resignation? Protest? It didn’t matter, Peter wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

“I guess what I’m trying to get at is that you’re not leaving here. No one’s going to find you, not alive at least. At first I thought I’d just shake you up, knock a good sense of fear into you, but I changed my mind.”

The threat of death rocked Peter harder than he had anticipated. Hearing the man admit he wanted Peter dead, that he had the power to end Peter’s life in that very moment caused his breathing to grow ragged.

He got worse threats with better delivery from mob bosses and mutants raging through Central Park but it didn’t matter.

Peter was afraid.

It didn’t even register that he was once again locked in the dark, he still couldn’t breathe as spittle frothed around the edges of the cloth in his mouth. 

It was all over. Being Spiderman, seeing Ned, his Aunt. Mr. Stark! He’d never get to hear him say  _ You did good, kid, _ or ruffle his hair ever again. 

Time was slipping away and Peter could do nothing but cry silently and hyperventilate over and over again. 

He always thought he’d go out as Spiderman, that he’d either finally bite off more than he could chew or saving the life of someone better than himself. Never like this, small and scared, all alone as Peter Parker. 

Muffled thuds reached his ears and in his panic Peter ignored them. His thoughts were spinning out of control so severely that he didn’t realize something was happening until he heard footsteps descending the stairs. 

That caused an increased amount of air puffing out of his lips as a headache pounded behind his eyes. He couldn’t get in any breath, couldn’t focus on anything except Mr. Thompson coming closer and closer. 

The door slammed open and he jumped so hard he smacked his head on the roof, white light bursting in his eyes. 

He heard shuffling and they were moving around things, but soon he heard them touch the lock. Hands wrapped around his throat and waist, his limbs jerking when a sharp crack rang in his ears.

The chest opened and Peter whimpered at the bright light that pierced his skull. There was so much going on that it took Peter a minute to see that it was Mr. Thompson but instead three men with large guns and dark uniforms with SWAT printed on their chests. 

They were shouting and more feet were pounding along the floor, Peter squeezed his eyes shut against the stimuli. Nothing was making much sense and he almost wished it  _ was _ Mr. Thompson because then he would know what was going to happen. He would either be yelled at or thrown around and touched. 

A gloved hand touched the gag around his mouth and he jerked away from it with a muffled sound of pain. It hurt to move and all the noise was getting to him. 

Peter was immensely relieved when it quieted and men were leaving the room until there was just one. He eyed him wearily and slowly tried to sit up. Grateful the gun was gone, Peter tried his best not to flinch when he leaned forwards to help. 

He couldn’t see most of his face and Peter didn’t know who he was, but it seemed better than a friend’s random parent grabbing him into their car. 

A knife appeared to break the ties along his wrists and he winced, immediately rubbing at the bruised skin. Peter slowly reached up to start to peel away the tape around his mouth, spitting out the disgusting rag with no small sense of relief.

Peter knew he was probably being talked to, but he couldn’t find any energy to try and understand what he was being told. Instead he pulled himself to his feet and when he got so dizzy he fainted, he sunk into the dark. 

Eyes stared straight ahead at the wall, everything blurring in and out of existence. He suddenly realized that he recognized where he was.

The hospital in Mr. Stark tower that he’d spent a few nights in from being a little more reckless than usual. 

Someone was right next to him, gently resting a hand on top of him. He was wearing a hospital gown lying in bed. 

“Peter?” He blinked and turned to see Mr. Stark standing there with a strange expression on his face. He was smiling softly but there was a strained expression in his eyes. “You with me, bud?” 

He slowly nodded.

“That good.” Mr. Stark said. “Do you remember where you are?” Peter nodded again, sliding his gaze slowly over the empty room. “The doctor said you’d feel pretty out of it for a few days from the pain meds. But she said you’re gonna be alright, okay?” 

Peter sighed slowly, letting some of the numb feelings wash over him. Probably from the medication Mr. Stark mentioned. There was no ice chest, no zip ties, and nothing shoved in his mouth.

“Peter?” Mr. Stark hesitantly squeezed his hand.

He smiled slowly, curling his fingers weakly into the other’s palm.

He would be alright, right there with Tony. 


End file.
